


And then I steal your heart away

by Roxie Ann (pluvial_poetry)



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, gentlemen thieves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-15
Updated: 2011-06-15
Packaged: 2017-10-20 11:17:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/212200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pluvial_poetry/pseuds/Roxie%20Ann
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone is in here, he has a gun, he's stealing from my museum...</p>
            </blockquote>





	And then I steal your heart away

**Author's Note:**

> The premise of this fic was borrowed from a scene in the Kay Hooper novel, _Once a Thief_.
> 
> Also, this fic is unbeta'd.

At twenty-six, Arthur is ambitious, focused, efficient, and more than a little ruthless. Which is why at twenty-six, Arthur finds himself the director of one of the largest and most esteemed private museums in the world.

He's the best in the business and he enjoys his work. Overseeing acquisitions, maintaining operations, the finances, and the staff. It's orderly. Order above all else in one of Saito's museums. It means that at twenty-six, Arthur works twice as hard as any other person in his building. It means that on a weekend in the middle of the night, Arthur is just finishing his day.

Arthur doesn't mind the long hours, but he's self-aware enough to say it's been hell on his personal life. Try telling your latest boyfriend that you're sneaking out of dinner with his parents because the private collector that owns one of your favorite Hockney painting is rumored to be thinking of exhibition. The boyfriend breaks up with him and Arthur doesn't count it as a loss -- at least he's got the Hockney.

At 2 a.m. Arthur leaves his desk, and strolls down to the Fine Arts wing. He likes the museum at night. The long shadows cast by the security lights, the quiet of the empty hallways. He walks down one, his footsteps echoing off the marble floor. Alone with the art. At least he thought so.

The press of metal at the base of his neck stops him cold.

"And what would our esteemed museum director be doing here at this time of night?"

Arthur's mind races, a jumble of, _Someone is in here, he has a gun, he's stealing from_ my _museum_. But he takes note of the voice, deep, flat, no discernible accent. Amused.

"Why?" Arthur asks, dry and biting, even as his heart jumps in his throat. "Am I interrupting?"

"Distracting, certainly." The voice says, his breath ghosting through the hair at the nape of Arthur's neck. Arthur fights back a flinch.

"I don't suppose you could be persuaded to forget you saw me here?" The man asks. And even though he knows the man can't see his face, Arthur's glare is withering.

"Well, nothing for it. I'm afraid I'm going to have to tie you up." The tone is at odds with the words, the man sounds positively gleeful at the prospect of tying Arthur up. Arthur decides not to think too deeply about that.

The man takes a step back and moves the gun away from Arthur's skin. Arthur turns around slowly.

The man is dressed in all black; a slim fitting pair of pants, a sweater, the requisite gloves and ski mask. Arthur takes note again, blue eyes. Bulky build. Wide shoulders, broad chest, muscular thighs... Arthur's report to the authorities is going to be very detailed.

The man tosses a zip tie to Arthur, which Arthur catches easily with one hand. Then the man nods to the security gate that separates the Precious Stones wing from the Fine Arts wing. When Arthur hesitates, he adds, "If you please."

"Where are the guards?" Arthur asks, slowly making his way over to the gate. He knows he doesn't have many options, but he weighs them all, in his conscientious, considered manner.

"Somewhere out of the way." The man answers. And that narrows Arthur's options to one.

He nods, tension building in his spine. The man will have to put down his gun to secure Arthur to the gate, and when he does --

"I wouldn't doubt that you'd be able to take me in a fair fight, darling, but this isn't one. Sit nicely, and let me tie you to this gate, and my team won't have to hurt any of the guards."

Arthur gapes at him, before schooling his features into a scowl. He can almost see the man's answering grin under his mask. But Arthur does as he says, sits quietly as the man tucks his gun into his waistband, and uses the zip tie in Arthur's hands to secure them behind his back and to the gate. Arthur regrets it immediately, when the man pats him on the head, and says, "There's my good boy."

As far as robberies go, this one becomes boring fast. The man seems to be doing nothing more than wandering the hall, stopping every few steps to admire one of the paintings.

"Why are you here?" Arthur asks him grudgingly, after several long minutes of silence and inactivity.

The man turns his attention back to him, coming over to slouch against the gate next to him. "Metaphysics, Arthur? And they say you have no imagination."

Arthur frowns at the use of his name and at the jab. It's one that he hears often enough from his critics in the art world. He remembers how the man had greeted him with his job title during those first moments.

"You do your research," he says. And it's meant as a compliment, no matter how condescending the tone.

"I'm very good at what I do," the man says humbly, tilting his head, an incongruously shy movement.

Unfortunately for Arthur, the man seems to take his question as an ice breaker. He manages after that to somehow divine Arthur's opinions on several local museums from Arthur's terse, one-word responses. He even manages with a handful of pointed questions to land on Arthur's favorite Hockney painting, the one on loan from a private collection. Then he moves on to Arthur's personal life.

"I'm assuming no girlfriend," he gives Arthur a lingering look, "or boyfriend, considering your slavish devotion to your work."

"Or maybe I've found someone who understands that work comes first." Arthur snaps.

When the man's response comes, it sounds thoughtful. "Maybe you have."

Arthur rolls his eyes, not interested in participating in whatever Stockholm Syndrome flirtation the man is trying to engage him in. He has been trying to shift positions, his arms cramped from being stretched behind him, and his ass numb from the marble floor. Being held captive takes its toll.

"Uncomfortable, darling?" The man asks, and the amusement is back in his voice.

"I'm fine." Arthur grits out through his teeth, not willing to concede any weakness. The man laughs though, softly, like he actually has a fondness for Arthur and his carefully banked rage, and then he pulls his sweater over his head, revealing a thin, soft-looking long-sleeved undershirt. He folds the sweater neatly into a bundle.

"With your permission, of course," he says. Arthur frowns and doesn't say anything, which he supposes is permission in itself.

The man moves into Arthur's space, radiating body heat, the scent of his cologne warm and spicy in the air. He wraps an arm around Arthur's waist, lifts his weight carefully, easily. Slides the sweater under Arthur and sets him back down, just as gently. He stays like that, peering down at Arthur, blue eyes deliberating, like he's trying to figure out Arthur's secrets, like there's nothing else in the whole museum that's as worthy of his attention as Arthur himself. It's strangely intimate.

"This won't look suspicious at all when the police show up. I'm sure all armed robbers make their victims this comfortable," Arthur says, because sarcasm makes sense when nothing else does.

"When the feds come," the man says. He laughs briefly before he continues, "Tell Agent Cobb, that I took a fancy to you. He'll believe that. There won't be any trouble for you, Arthur."

There's something familiar creeping into the man's voice. An accent, the slight softening of the "r's" in Arthur's name.

If Arthur were a different person, he might have believed that this man could have taken a fancy to him. If he were less single minded, more willing to rely on a roll of the dice. Maybe he could believe that a chance encounter with a stranger could be fate. But Arthur is a realist, and what he believes is that attraction has no place in a hostage situation.

Yet it's with strange unease that Arthur says, "Saito is going to hunt you down." Saito's reputation would demand nothing less. If Arthur knows one thing about his boss, it's that he's not to be fucked with.

"That's certainly possible." The man doesn't sound particularly worried about the risk. Which means he's either stupid, or really _that good_. For some reason, Arthur would bet on the latter. Arthur refuses to call the tension that bleeds out of his shoulders at the realization 'relief'.

A small beeping noise sounds from the man's pocket then and he stands up straight, smooths the creases in his pants flat.

"Sorry, darling, that's my cue," he says, and he does sound regretful.

"Perhaps we'll see each other again," he says. He's leaving.

And Arthur is tied up in a dark, empty museum, none of his employees expected in until Monday morning. If this man leaves him, he'll be trapped here. A hot wave of panic chokes Arthur, visceral and immediate.

"You can't- Don't-," he stutters over it, but the man seems to intuit his meaning before Arthur humiliates himself any further and actually begs the man who's robbing his museum not to leave.

"I'll call the authorities as soon as I leave the building. You won't be here long, Arthur, I promise you. Do you believe me?"

And Arthur says, "Yes." Because he has to, because he can't imagine not.

"Close your eyes," the man says, and Arthur, unthinkingly, does.

"Twenty minutes, Arthur. I promise," he says again. And this time the accent is recognizably English.

Arthur feels warm breath pass over his cheek a second before a mouth closes over his. The kiss is brief, and Arthur takes note of the fleeting sensation of full lips, and stubble rasping against the skin around his mouth. The man has his mask off. If Arthur opens his eyes, he would see the man's face.

For some reason, he keeps them closed.

When Arthur opens his eyes, several moments later, he's alone. The cops arrive not long after, as promised.

*

The police question Arthur for several hours. Asking if he remembers anything about the man, if he had any distinguishing characteristics, if he had spoken to Arthur. Arthur tells them what he remembers. Everything, except for the kiss and the slip of an accent. He keeps those to himself. If only because the man kept his promise to Arthur.

After the police are finished with him, they take Arthur through the museum as he makes a list of the pieces of art that the man made off with. He notes dispassionately that his favorite Hockney is among the stolen works.

As Arthur details in a report to Saito, from what he can tell, the cops are more than a little baffled about how the man got past the museum's security measures, the gates and alarms. Not to mention how he managed to take out 9 armed guards and one museum director, without any injuries. And even though he spoke of a team to Arthur, none of the guards ever saw more than one man during the course of the robbery. From their estimated time table, he was in the building for less than three hours, at least an hour of which that he spent with Arthur. The man really was that good.

When Agent Cobb arrives from the FBI, he takes Arthur's statement again and the man's sweater. He does look somewhat incredulous about Arthur's claim that a man stopped in the middle of an armed robbery to see to the comfort of one hostage. But when Arthur tells him what the man said, about taking a fancy to him, he sighs and nods. Cobb clearly believes him. And Arthur is twenty-six, untrusting, and guarded, known for his lack of imagination.

But he believes it too.

Arthur is on the phone with the museum's insurance company when he overhears Cobb speaking to his partner, a small brunette woman. It appears that the man who robbed Arthur's museum has been gaining a bit of a reputation for slick, clean operations, walking off with millions of dollars worth of art in Europe without so much as a trace left behind. He's only recently branched out into America. Cobb has been working his case since then. There haven't been any leads.

He's the epitomic gentleman thief, with a taste for beauty. Stealing anything, apparently, that he takes a fancy to.

His name is Eames.

**Author's Note:**

> If I were the type of person that wrote long fic with actual plots, I would imagine that Eames comes back for Arthur and they manage to make something work between them.


End file.
